


Legacy

by darthjamtart



Series: Inheritance [3]
Category: English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child, Thomas the Rhymer (Traditional Ballad)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10166984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: The faerie queen’s blood never quite washes out.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobberBaroness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts).



These are the things Penarwen learned from her mother: how to sew a straight seam, how to wash the blood from her smallclothes, how to craft a curse. Together they steep herbs and cast spells, and Penarwen embroiders her favorites around the hem of her kirtle, stitching the outlines of pennyroyal, tansy, rue.

The faerie queen’s blood never quite washes out. An immortal’s ichor is some other substance, perhaps. Penarwen scrubs her kirtle until the fabric is worn thin, and the dark stain lingers.

If the faerie court takes notice, they don’t speak of it. “Come and lead the wild hunt,” they call to her, and they offer her tithes, gold stolen from foolish lordlings, peasant bribes and trinkets. Tribute for the faerie queen. Penarwen thinks she can still taste the blood on her teeth.

At thirteen she is already an accomplished rider, but the faerie queen’s mount is temperamental and fractious. Penarwen finds apples growing deep in the woods, steals carrots from a nearby garden. When she leads the faerie court, her horse is lightning-quick and steadies at her touch.

At thirteen she is frightened but she has never felt so alive. In every form, as any mortal creature, Penarwen had always felt safe under her mother’s scrutiny. But her mother isn’t here, and Penarwen is no longer a mere mortal girl.

Time passes, or does it? Penarwen’s kirtle barely reaches to her knees and she is always hungry. The faerie court feasts on rhubarb tarts and venison, lamb pies and roasted swan, but no meal can satisfy her.

She goes riding alone, farther and farther, until one day she comes across a man lounging by the bank of a river. He is sun-kissed and sweltering in the summer heat, shirt cast aside, and Penarwen’s breath catches in her throat. She has been cold for so long, but when she touches him she feels the rush of human blood in her veins, sending a long-forgotten flush to her pale cheek.

“What is your name?” she asks him. They are lying in the grass together, Penarwen’s kirtle long since cast aside.

“Thomas,” he says, and she kisses him slowly, chasing the name from his lips.

“Will you come with me, Thomas?” she asks. She can see his breath lingering in the cold between them when she pulls away, the pebbling of his skin where their arms are pressed together. “Will you stay with me?”

“For seven years, I’ll be yours, and true,” Thomas says. “If you’ll grant me a boon in return.”

“I can give you riches,” Penarwen says, but Thomas shakes his head.

“I can give you the strength and cunning of any beast,” she offers, but Thomas shakes his head.

“Is there nothing stranger among all the faeries?” Thomas asks, and Penarwen rises, quicker than his eyes can follow, and mounts her horse.

“Why don’t you come and see?” she asks.

  
  


Woodcut print by Peter Nevins


End file.
